The Day Before
by Froody
Summary: The day before the end of the world. Arthur reflects on his pointless life.


_**5:43 am**_

The dawning of a new day is seen by some as a fantastical celebration of creation and life, to be marvelled at each and every time it arrives. The vast majority of the living population despises these people, both for their unquenchably irritating enthusiasm as well as their inevitably good appearance at the given time.

Arthur is, as always, one of the majority. Like millions of other people across the globe, he simply cannot function before his three cups of tea and hot shower in the bleak pre-daylight hours. Shaving, communicating beyond a vague mumble, or opening the eyes before the worshiped caffeine is impossible.

Which is why it was such a problem when a rude shaking of the teabag tin revealed it to be empty.

Waking up on the wrong side of the bed is a common expression in the modern world of the alarm clock. Arthur had woken up on the wrong bed, it seemed, on this particular morning.

_Why me?_

The most common thought in history. Why me, poor old me, never hurt a fly, what did I do to deserve this, it's an outrage, etc.

Denied his habitual downing of tea, Arthur slouched irately to the bathroom. Without his kick-start to the day, he had no energy for a shower, and so went straight (or, remarkably straight for someone with their eyes closed) to the bathroom sink, and picked up what he sincerely hoped was his toothbrush.

He paused for a moment, noting the tell-tale signs of an impending migraine, and tried to use his reluctant brain.

Meditation. Isn't that what his psychologist had advised him to try?

_Just meditate and allow your stress to dissolve. Embrace your inner light. Control your breathing. Ignore the many nerve-wracking realities of life._

Arthur closed his bleary eyes and tried to relax. An odd contradiction. Many people have to try to relax. These people are normally the very ones who find it impossible to relax.

_Do or do not, there is no try._

As he focussed on not focussing, and attempted to let go, the dishevelled and very much exhausted man allowed his body to go limp. His eyes rolled back into his head. His brain echoed his psychologist's lecturings.

He let go. Of everything. His tiredness. His frustration. His failures. His toothbrush.

As his toothbrush clattered to the floor, he slowly opened his eyes. And looked, rather despondently, into the mirror. To his disgruntled, unshaven, completely hopeless self. Then, reluctantly, to the floor. To where his rather ordinary, worn red toothbrush lay alone. And back to the mirror.

His weary brain noted the odd resemblance between his life and the toothbrush. He was, by all accounts, an ordinary, struggling, middle-class man. It could be said that he was worn; working alternate day/night shifts had certainly not improved the matter of the growing wrinkle lines around his face, and it was directly responsible for the black shadows under his clouded, disconcerted eyes. He wasn't quite as red as his toothbrush, not physically, that was obvious, but abstractly, it seemed at times that his temper flew up to become redder indeed than the colour of the toothbrush.

Then again, he envied the toothbrush. The toothbrush could just lie there, without a worry in the world. It looked completely at rest, at ease. Arthur was never at ease. Not at home, not at work, surrounded by the whirring rush and crowding of his colleagues.

Staring at yourself in the mirror, contemplating the meaning of your seemingly hopeless life is not recommendable. It starts an unstoppable rush of philosophical questions about the pitiful existence of the biologically functioning being which is you that can make your approach to life even more despairing and disillusioned (or, so you'd like to think) than before. So, when Arthur caught a glimpse of the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, and slowly realised what the time was, it was probably just as well that his panic destroyed an opportunity for soul-searching on his behalf.

_**2:00 pm**_

Three hours to go.

After Arthur's shift last night, and the inevitable shift today, he was completely and utterly prepared for some more attempted relaxation after work. There was no point in trying to unwind around the office. Too noisy, too busy… too stressful.

Sometimes it seemed that the entire futility of life could be traced back to man's endless hunt for money. If you manage to get money, then you have to spend it to stay alive. Then you want more money, and more money, enough money so that one day, when you're not quite as young as you used to be, you can stop working, and survive on your accumulated cash.

Life used to be an endless struggle to survive. Now, life is an endless struggle to get rich. Anyone who gets left behind, beggars, the unemployed, the destitute, they can only blame it on themselves. Not true? Of course. But this is the way to think when you're soaking in self-pity, reflecting on the pointlessness of working and spending.

Time goes quicker when you're not paying attention.

_**5:36 pm**_

Home at last.

Nothing to do now but turn on the telly and watch. Life finally has a purpose, a small reward.

It has always been said that there are dog people and cat people, morning people and night people, big-brand people and home-brand people. Arthur is a night person. He also happens to be a cat person and a home-brand person, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is that he can finally enjoy himself, have some fun, eat a biscuit while watching _Deal or No Deal_ on TV. Fantasise about being a contestant on the show and winning the $200 000, and never having to work again.

Time is money. Winning a year's worth of wages in twenty minutes is a greatly enjoyable fantasy.

To enjoy life, unless you happen to be one of the lucky few, largely comprises of ignoring reality, or at least, your own reality. And what better outlet is there than TV for that?

Everyone needs a bit of time to think, to daydream, in the modern materialistic world. Especially Arthur.

Tomorrow will be a turning point in his life; it just goes to show how important it is to keep up with the Council agenda. Mornings have never been a good time for Arthur, and tomorrow will be especially bad; not only has he once again forgotten to restock on tea, but his house, closely followed by Earth, are to be destroyed.

He may be living in a material world; he may even be a material man, but none of that will matter in approximately sixteen hours.


End file.
